The Show
by afullmargin
Summary: No matter how things go, the show must go on. Brian MacMillan is a too aware of the role he plays.


Fandom: Psychoville

Pairing(s): None, Brian

Genre: Character exploration

Prompt: comment_fic user doreyg: Any, any, Empty spaces - what are we living for ; Abandoned places - I guess we know the score.

Notes: Erm, comment_fic fill kind of spilled out of my head. I'm far to intrigued by Brian, even though I'm guessing we won't be seeing him in Series 2. Hah. Also another slight experiment in structure and tense shifts. We'll see how/if it works. Many thanks to "Missy for doing a super quick beta read! The song is, of course, "_The Show Must Go On_" by Queen.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

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><p><em>Empty spaces – what are we living for?_

_Abandoned places – I guess we know the score…_

_On and on!_

_Does anybody know what we are looking for?/_

There was a time, before time it seems, he wasn't bitter. A time when performing was a magical escape to a world of kings and queens, white knights on horseback, the insufferable fool, sword fights and spells… and even the rarest thing of all – true love. A time when the stage was a portal to a simpler life, the proscenium became gateway to the adoration of the crowd gathered to shower one with their love and affection.

He crosses the small stage (left to right, the symbolism not lost on him), running through his blocking from memory of thousand performances. The Evil Queen, Mother Goose, Widow Twankey, even a forgettable season as his talents were wasted on Prince Charming. Twankey was a favorite from before the veil dropped, goading the audience had always been a favored past time – but there was something about her world weary sense of who she was and what her place was in the world. Gently, his fingers brush across his unmade face – catching soft patches above his eyes where the last layer of thick green has left it slightly raw and tender. The small, empty theater was no stranger to his gentle hiss of breath as he danced on bare tiptoe (right to left again). Bitterness came slowly, creeping in like the evening fog over years of pushing and pulling until the only way to make a stand was through control.

_/Another hero – another mindless crime._

_Behind the curtain, in the pantomime._

_Hold the line!_

_Does anybody want to take it anymore?_

_The Show must go on!_

_The Show must go on! Yeah!_

_Inside my heart is breaking,_

_My make-up may be flaking,_

_But my smile, still stays on./_

Like most stories that are the slightest bit interesting, it started with a love affair that was equal parts of love and affair. Well before Sussex there was Paris and dance instructor called Phillip who taught him how to move with flawless grace. Taught him a good deal of other things too, at least until his wife caught them in the midst of an interlude that weren't exactly a waltz. Phillip was gone quickly, and he made high marks and moved on as one does – still smiling and believing that there is no such thing as first love that hasn't gone sour.

Picking up his pace, Brian's hands brush down his own face and then across his shoulders – catching the collar of his blouse before crisscrossing to his thin black leather belt. Dancing was a skill he never lost despite waning use in his role as grand dame of the pantomime. His feet moved much faster when bare against the stage than in heels, the bottoms scuffing against the familiar floor as he began to improvise – pulling bits from each role he'd done as far back as a failed show he wrote fresh out of university.

_/ Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance._

_Another heartache – another failed romance._

_On and on…_

_Does anybody know what we are living for?_

_I guess I'm learning_

_I must be warmer now…_

_I'll soon be turning, round the corner now._

_Outside the dawn is breaking,_

_But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free!/_

It was a story perhaps as old as time itself, boy meets girl and falls in love. He'd labored under the impression he was incapable of loving a woman, but after meeting Florence he realized he couldn't be sure. At the time he was writing, working on a new routine after a crushing blow at Edinburgh Fringe at the hands of people he once considered colleagues if not friends. She was a student, and it so happened they both enjoyed spending hours reading pretentious literature and pretending to be writing when they couldn't be arsed to string two sentences together. It turns out they also shared a mutual love of soft, delicate things and talking about themselves. It was love, for a time. After four years of blissfully unproductive dressing up and attending parties they'd not been invited to, she left him for a builder in Wales she'd been seeing no more than six days.

He finds himself lost in the motion, the only sound the shuffle of his feet coupled with hissing groans and muttered curses when he over extends and causes a dull ache in his muscles. Bitterness was sort of a funny thing, really. After Florence he shut down for a time – locking himself in tiny hotel room in Glasgow until he emerged in a drunken daze four months later and threw himself into a poor attempt at television work before being picked up by a Rocky Horror touring company. It was his first taste of freedom, with mixed results.

_/The Show must go on!_

_The Show must go on! Yeah, yeah!_

_Ooh! Inside my heart is breaking!_

_My make-up may be flaking…_

_But my smile, still, stays on!_

_Yeah! Oh oh oh/_

Rocky Horror changed his life; he likes to think for the best really. Over the first several months he went from a man-boy in a frock to a beautiful creature. The touring company was clap-trap at best, his role as an understudy extended to every character in the show as needed (usually to fill for whomever had started in on the gin early that night) as well as costuming, wigging, and training himself. Not even a year in he'd become the most reliable cast member and shifted seamlessly from Magenta to Brad or Janet and ultimately to the role that he would occupy until the company disbanded as the good Dr. Frank N Furter after a particularly graceful save in a Shoreditch production where he'd taken command of the stage after his predecessor's injury midway through the show. He'd never admit to it, but Kyle's fall had not been an accident so much as the result of failing to notice when his pre-show vodka tonic had been triple strength.

He jumps left, and shuffles right – falling all too easily into the steps. The memories would stick with him, and as the panto season came to a close it was easy to say he wanted to fall in with another company until winter came rolling back around – but it was never quite so easy. After joining with Biggins he hung up his fishnets and shock wig, favoring a soft bodice over the familiar cinch of a hard corset. Elbow sex was replaced with… well, not real sex but the opportunity should he chose that path again. Sure, there had been chances – but none that he could keep the reigns tight enough on. Sussex, it appeared, was not the place to find forever. So, as the black lipstick gave way to red he once more let himself get lost in the petty drama of stage life.

_/My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies,_

_Fairy tales of yesterday, will grow but never die,_

_I can fly, my friends!/_

Their first season was an utter failure. The Gold King was a step above the crumbling monstrosities he'd played in while back in Glasgow, but not a very big one. Even the inevitable groups of primary school children and Cub Scout troupes weren't enough to support a full season. Then it early, only ended one week after Christmas with a matinee fit for a funeral procession. Biggins promised a better season to come and begged him to stay, pulling every dirty and disgusting trick in the book until he finally promised permanent contract and the largest dressing room… which wasn't really much more than enough to sign on the dole for the off season and spend it alone in his flat attempting to write as he had several years before.

The Widow's character comes easily to him, all weathered wash-maid hands and less than subtle innuendo. He turns full circle with small steps, shaping his hands as a curvaceous princess of the sort Aladdin would be looking for. His dance slows and he catches his breath, opening his eyes to the empty auditorium once more. How many times had he performed to an empty theater, painted and primped and ready to fly – only to sink like so much dead weight? But that second series, it was magnificent… they came, and for the first time he realized his home was indeed the small stage.

_/The Show must go on! Yeah!_

_The Show must go on!_

_I'll face it with a grin!_

_I'm never giving in!_

_On with the show!/_

The second seasons was a hit, and he had to ensure that continued to be the case… with a buffoon like Biggins manning the helm it was sure to be a one off performance. Subtly, he took control of the company – quite purposefully despite his deference when asked outright who was in charge. Actors would leave days after being cast, scripts would be altered (for the better, of course) and Biggins would take the credit. He had his ways; he was the grand dame after all. A Wicked Stepsister and two Twankeys later and Biggins would ask him in on the casting interviews and auditions.

"Another season, come and gone." He whispers in a soft falsetto, adjusting the glasses that had gone askew in his frantic dancing. "Soon you'll be full of strange men with their little shows to entertain you until I return." The words sound strange, echoed back off row after row of empty seats in the small theater. "Next season will be my year, darling. Christopher Biggins will not make the end of the production."

_/I'll top the bill!_

_I'll overkill!_

_I have to find the will to carry on!_

_On with the,_

_On with the show!/_

Snow White was his last straw. It was bad enough to share billing with dwarves… but for the blonde tart to get top bill was a stinging slap in the face. "She'll attract an audience." Biggins had insisted, "They want a real woman, with real breasts." It was disgusting, perhaps true but no less absolutely no reason for casting. She was fun, sure – the daft ones always were… all the fun of an actual person without any worry about things like feelings or independent thought, but after a few months it wore thin. Thankfully the porn dwarf ended up providing more than enough entertainment for everyone, even after the accident. No, he had to go – Biggins was far too concerned about his mostly non-existent television career and getting cast in adverts.

He pulls the curtain closed and phones Biggins' mobile; "Christopher, yes… it's Brian. I don't want to alarm you, but I was boxing up my dressing room and think I've left some things in yours." It was easy enough to draw him the theater, and within the hour they were alone in the dressing room, locked on the other side of the door. "Christopher… Chris…" He smiles seductively, baring one shoulder and then another. "Have I ever told you that I find your work absolutely fascinating?"

_**/The Show must go on./**_


End file.
